The Violet Peony

There are people

who somehow become attached

to certain colors.

Some choose blue.

Some choose red.

And somewhere,

there is someone

who chose violet.

I don't know why.

Maybe it simply suited her.

Maybe some colors

just find the right person.

Like a violet peony—

soft at first glance,

layered beneath the surface,

quietly carrying more

than its appearance suggests.

Perhaps that’s where

this little story begins.

With a flower.

And then, slowly,

with the little things.

A mole beneath her right eye.

A matangos na ilong.

A striking gaze

that could leave strangers spellbound

before a single word

ever leaves her mouth.

And then—

Milo powder.

Straight from the pack.

No milk.

No water.

No attempt to make it normal.

Just Milo.

As if that were, obviously,

the only correct way to eat it.

I stopped questioning it.

There are stranger things

in this world.

Like the way someone

can speak flawless English one moment,

then suddenly—

Kabisayaan.

There it is.

That soft Bisaya accent

slipping between the words.

A completely different rhythm,

a completely different flavor—

and somehow,

I always know.

Ah.

There she is again.

Honestly,

it's kind of cute.

Maybe those are the things

that make a person unforgettable.

Not the grand gestures.

Not the parts they deliberately put on display.

The little habits.

The quiet quirks.

The ones they probably don't realize

anyone ever notices.

Even something as simple

as a pair of sunglasses.

With them,

she looks like a completely different person.

Without them,

another version appears.

Funny how something so small

can change the face we recognize.

But maybe faces

were never the important part.

People change their clothes.

Their expressions.

Their hair.

Their voices.

They put something

between themselves and the world.

And still,

somewhere underneath it all,

they remain who they are.

That's the part

I don't mind knowing.

Not the outside.

The person within.

The person who gets tired.

The person who barely sleeps.

The person who carries a hundred obligations

and has every reason to say,

"I'll finish it tomorrow."

But somehow,

she never does.

She keeps going.

Keeps working.

Keeps insisting that things be finished—

even when exhaustion

is already heavy on her shoulders.

I wonder how hard

that must be.

To keep giving away your time

when your own body

is quietly asking for it back.

And yet,

she still reads.

Not just skimming through—

she immerses herself.

She steps inside the stories

as if they were places she could actually visit.

A poem isn't simply

a collection of words to her.

For a moment,

she lives inside it.

Feels it.

Carries it.

As if the story were meant

for her to find all along.

And somehow,

she scored the highest in her room.

That’s genuinely impressive.

Because maybe that's what happens

when someone doesn't read merely to finish a page—

they read to understand.

They read to feel.

And for someone who writes,

having a reader like that

means more than she probably knows.

Someone actually stayed

until the very last line.

Someone actually entered

the world you were trying to build.

Someone made the words

feel witnessed.

So—

thank you.

Really.

Thank you for reading our poems.

Thank you for giving our little stories

somewhere to exist outside our own heads.

Although—

you still owe us.

You fell asleep during the live

the other day.

HAHAHA.

But honestly,

I understand.

You barely sleep.

You carry so much.

You were exhausted.

And somehow,

you still showed up.

So I can't really complain.

I'm grateful.

I really am.

And please—

that acid reflux is acting up again.

Take care of yourself, will you?

Because—

wala nang babasa ng works ko:<

HAHAHA.

Who else is going to read them

like they're actually living

through every word?

So rest when you need to.

Eat properly.

Give yourself the same patience

you give everyone else's stories.

You don't always have to finish

everything you start.

You don't always have to be

the strong one.

Sometimes,

you can just put everything down.

Breathe.

Sleep.

Let tomorrow handle tomorrow.

Because strength isn't always about holding on.

Sometimes, strength is knowing

when it’s time to stop.

And I hope you remember that.

Because I admire

a person like you.

Not because you're perfect.

Not because you're always strong.

Not because of how you look.

Not because of the sunglasses.

Not because of the violet.

Not because of the gaze.

Not even because of those sweet, silly moments

when kabisayaan suddenly takes over.

I admire the person underneath all of it.

The tired one.

The hardworking one.

The silly one.

The one who gets lost

inside someone else's poem.

The one who keeps showing up

even when she has every right not to.

All those versions

are still one person.

And somehow,

I think that's beautiful.

There are people

who collect names

without ever asking for them.

Tita to some.

Ate to others.

Mommy to a few.

Mother to the ones

who somehow made it official.

Teacher to those

who come looking for answers.

Different names.

Different people.

Same person.

And then there's the name

I gave you.

Rebound.

Don't ask me why.

You already know.

HAHAHA.

Maybe that's what happens

when people start seeing you

as a place where they can lean.

But I hope you remember

that even a pillar needs a foundation to rest on.

So please—

give yourself more time.

Take care of yourself a little more.

Drink some water.

Get some sleep.

And don't forget to breathe.

Actually—

never mind.

Don't breathe.

HAHAHA.

I'm kidding.

Please breathe.

We still need someone

to read our works.

I hope life becomes gentler with you.

I hope you get mornings

where you aren't already tired.

Nights where you don't have

to stay awake for everyone else.

Days where nobody needs anything from you,

and you can simply exist and breathe.

I hope you laugh a lot.

I hope you find happiness

that doesn't require you

to exhaust yourself first.

And I hope our little community

never becomes another weight

you have to carry.

I hope this place

remains something light—

something you can return to

without feeling like you owe anyone your energy.

Because you don't.

You deserve a life

that isn't only about enduring.

And selfishly,

I hope you're still around

to read our terrible poems

for a very, very long time.

Because honestly—

wala nang babasa ng works ko.

So take care of yourself.

Please.

You still owe us a live stream.

And maybe someday,

when you see a violet peony somewhere,

you'll remember

that among all these poems,

all these stories,

all these ridiculous jokes,

there was someone who noticed.

Someone who remembered the little things.

Someone who was deeply grateful

you were here.

And if you've figured out

who this poem is about by now—

then I suppose

the flower gave it away.

Maybe violet

was never j

ust a color.

Maybe it was simply

a quiet way of saying:

I see you.

I see this truly remarkable,

wonderfully layered,

incredible person.

And I only hope

that one day,

you can look in the mirror

and see yourself through my eyes—

so you can finally realize

just how truly amazing you are.